


All Things Go

by Catchclaw



Series: We Can Make The World Stop [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bottom!Cas, Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, POV First Person, Singing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-22
Updated: 2012-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-29 23:23:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/325312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel tries to live in the moment, with mixed results.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Things Go

When you spend so much of your life watching, as we do, observing others, it becomes second nature to turn those same eyes on yourself. On your own thoughts.

You will find, after a time, that you become a watcher at the gates of your mind.

Once I thought that I had become too good at it, that I was so self-reflective, so self-conscious that I had scorched myself from the inside out. That I was blasted and burned, every day, by my own--efficiency.

But there are worse things than being burned.

For them, it is different. Their instinct, always, is to act. To do. Not to reflect or consider, but to move first and question their motives after the fact. If at all.

Perhaps this is part of the reason that I found them so intriguing. That I preferred their company to yours, for a time. To my own.

Indeed, there is something to be said for their approach. For choosing not to see. Choosing not to know. Not to find out.

Such an outlook is--appealing. Perhaps even seductive.

But let me assure you: we do not have that luxury.

I made the mistake of acting as though I did, once. I would not advise you to do the same.

I made a lot of mistakes.

**

We were alone, together, somewhere in the middle west where it was flat and brown. Out there, cities seemed like a daydream, a legend. Something from another world. There were a few gatherings of houses, some tumbled-down barns, but beyond them, beyond the asphalt that stretched ahead of us, there was nothing that hinted at their vibrancy, at their ability to build and create. It was empty.

There, where we were, it felt as though something was ending.

We spent much of the day in a comfortable silence, broken only by Dean's attempts to summon all of the dogs in the surrounding area with his voice. But I did not mind. It was cool and peaceful and I sang along with the choruses, much to his delight.

At the end of a particularly energetic rendition of something called an REO Speedwagon, he reached over for me, laughing.

"I love it when you're like this," he said.

"Like what?" I asked, letting myself fall over a little into his touch.

He stroked my face. "Like--happy. Relaxed. Not so worried about stuff."

I tilted my head and it fell out of his hand. "I--I do not know what you are referring to."

"You know, when you're just Cas, a dude who is awesome, and not Castiel, Angel of the Lord, who is Awesome by like, birthright."

"I do not think I understand your point."

"See, that's your problem," he said, sighing. "You think too damn much."

I frowned. "That assertion has no basis in fact."

He shook his head. "Bullshit. I know you, dude. Look, I can understand worrying over the big Heaven Hell Universe-y stuff, but you--you get your brain twisted over what sock to put on first." He gave me a knowing grin. "And you seemed to enjoy not thinking the other night, when you were all hopped up on tequila."

I could think of no way to effectively dispute that point.

"Look," he said, "Trust me on this. Sometimes you just gotta--you know, go with the flow, or whatever, without having to drink yourself down a well. You need to just shut your brain off for awhile."

"That is not physically possible. If my vessel's brain were to cease to function--"

He huffed, exasperated. "No, Cas, you're not--what I mean is that sometimes, you just have to do, you know, and worry about it all later. You miss out on stuff if you worry about everything all the time."

"Dean, I do not worry 'all the time,' I simply contemplate the possible consequences of actions that I am considering before I proceed. Rather than after."

There was a pause.

"Riiight," he drawled. "Like I said. You worry everything to death." Then he turned to me, grinning. "And I bet you do it in bed, too."

"I--I do not--"

"Ha!" he barked, banging his hand on the wheel. "Oh you so do, Cas! Come on, tell me you don't say to yourself," and here he dropped his voice in a poor imitation of my own, "Self, what are the possible consequences of me putting my hand on Dean's cock? It is possible that he might become aroused, but it is also possible that he--"

"Dean!" I said, in my own voice, which sounded nothing like his--impersonation. "You are being ridiculous." But I may have been blushing. For while the tone of his imitation may have been incorrect, he was quite--accurate in his assessment of the content.

He saw my face and started laughing. "Uh huh," he said. "Ok, whatever you say." He reached over and squeezed my knee. Left his hand there. "Hmm," he mused, his voice dropping again. "I wonder if there are multiple possible outcomes of this touch."

My temper got the best of me. I smacked his hand, hard, and he pulled it away, chuckling.

"Nope," he said to the road. "Like I thought. Just the one." He winked at me and reached for the radio.

I do not like to be challenged.

So, that evening, when we finally stopped so that he might rest, I decided to prove him wrong.

To show him that I could live in the moment, as it were. Could stop thinking, for a little while.

**

So.

It is late. He is stretched out beside me in bed, propped up on one elbow. He is so sure of himself when he is naked. It still startles me, a little.

He is looking down at me.

"Dean," I say, blinking at him in the yellow light. Teasing. "You are staring."

He grins, slow and lazy. Cocky. "Am I?" He wraps his free hand around my hip, a movement that feels--possessive. Final.

I do not object.

I reach up and stroke his chest. Run my fingers over his breastbone and make him sigh. I watch his cockiness slide away under my touch.

His face softens and he looks very, very young. Innocent. Unharmed.

His body caves in towards my hand and I push him over, gently, and sit up. "Roll over," I tell him, and he does, giving my his back, tucking his face into the mattress, his smile disappearing into the sheets.

His spine rolls under my fingers. His flesh coils under my hand.

He loves to be touched like this. Gentle and slow. Easy and familiar. Ripple and hum and sigh. Breathe. My mouth on his neck. His shoulders. Just touching. Barely touching. The hollow at the base of his spine. The scars on his side. Hands over his ribs, pressing. Curve of his hip in my palm. Then both. Then neither until he flows up, wavering. Sighing when I touch him again. Relieved. Turns his face so I can see him smile, so his eyes can find mine. Beautiful. Cloudy. Pleased.

He likes to do this with the radio on, which I find to be--distracting. Sometimes he has his way and I will find his mouth moving as I kiss him, feel his throat buzzing with words that I do not understand. Sometimes, when it is on, he will reach out and slam his hand down, turn off the sound, mumble something about Steve Perry and a goddamn journey and fall back into my arms. Sometimes I have my way and the only sounds in my ears are his, are those I draw out of him with my body--and he is an orchestra, in my hands.

Fingernails over his skin, and that makes him moan, a little. Arch and sway under my hands. Lips on his neck, again. Longer. Curve my head down towards his throat, towards his mouth that I cannot reach, and his whole body rolls up into mine. He lifts his head, shows me his mouth open and ready, but I pull my mouth away, bury it in the back of his neck, push him back down with my tongue.

He groans. A token protest. Loves this. Loves me.

When I am over him, like this, when I cannot see his face, can only read him through his body, his voice, I cannot help but know how fragile he is. So sensitive. Only flesh and bone, sundered and sewn back together a thousand times. Ripped. Reconstructed. I try not to think in this way, when I am touching him like this, for then I find myself growing uncertain, fearing that I might hurt him, tear him open again, accidentally. But when my hands go still and I am trembling, he knows. When that happens, he will throw me off of his back, grab me, kiss me. Slap my hands back on his body, dig them into his skin. He shows me that he will not break. Not quite so easily.

But now is not one of those times. I do not fear his fragility, now, because I am not thinking. I am only doing.

I start to stroke his back again, fingers and hands and mouth. Feel his hips start to shift under me. To push into the bed, moaning, his ribs vibrating under my lips.

I move, let him feel my cock against his thigh, and he presses himself against me. Calls my name, deep in his chest. His body shaking beneath mine.

I do this again and again. Touch him. Tease him. Drive against his hip, then pull away. Count down his spine with my tongue. Take it away. Until he is trembling. Growling. He laughs and reaches back, tries to grab me. But I am faster.

I roll off of his hips and I am in his arms before I touch the bed, my mouth full of his tongue his voice his smile. He spreads himself over me, keeps my head close to his, rubs his body over mine. And he talks to me, his words over my face like a veil, his voice--

"Castiel. Can you feel my cock, baby? You feel what you've done to me? Hmm?"

"How can I not?" I gasp. "You are pushing it against my--"

He laughs and pushes again. Grabs my hand and wraps it around his cock.

"Yes, oh, yeah--" he groans, shoving into my hand. Bends down to kiss me as I stroke him, which he loves. Loves to be touched like this, with my hand his cock trapped between us.

"So hard, Cas," he says into my mouth. "God, you make me so hard, baby, how do you--?" He drops his tongue into mine, caresses my mouth with it, makes me swallow his moans. My name.

And I want only to please him. To make him happy. But he thrusts against my hand, and my fist brushes against my own cock, and I forget about him and I know only what I want, what I need.

I pull away from his mouth, push my hips up, and beg.

Love this.

Love him.

"Dean," I say, I shout. My fingers flexing around him. Trying. Trying. "Suck my cock, oh, fuck Dean, need you--suck me, please! oh--"

He yanks himself out of my hand and falls down, panting, his breath hot against my skin, and pulls me into his mouth. Hungry for me. Hard, quick. Not gentle. He shoves his hands into my hips, forces me down even as I push up, try to reach him. I watch myself slide in and out of him, disappearing between his lips and falling back out and then in. Out. And in.

And something is different, I can feel it, but the rest of me is screaming, focused only on him, on his tongue his hands his head as he moves over me and I am not thinking.

We struggle, push and pull, until he lets me win and I am fucking his mouth, his eyes reaching up to meet mine and I know, I know what is different, what I want, but I cannot help myself and I no longer care.

"Dean," I say, my voice in splinters. "Fuck. Please. Fuck me."

And even as I say it, I know that he will. And part of me is terrified and the rest is flying apart at the seams. Want him _now_.

He pulls away, moves up my side, nudges his face against mine and before he opens his mouth, I know what he will say and I turn my mouth to his and say "Yes, yes I am certain. Please," and my voice breaks again and I close my eyes, afraid to let him see. "Do not make me beg, Dean. Please," I moan but if he asks I will plead I will sing I will scream his name in any language out into the light until my throat shatters if only he will--

He smiles, shakes his head. Kisses me. Runs his fingers over my shoulder, my neck.

"Ok," he says. Soothing. "Ok, Cas, it's ok. I will, baby. Just let me--I have to get some things, ok?"

I nod and he moves out of the bed, leaves me alone. Cold and hot all at once. Shivering.

He falls over me, suddenly, drops something next to my head, and buries his tongue in my mouth, shoves it to the back of my throat, moves his body over me, his cock working over mine faster and faster, his hands back on my hips, pushing me into the bed as he thrusts against me and yes oh yes this is what it will feel like, only better, deeper, more and I cannot wait anymore and I wail keen cry in his ear and. He knows.

He lifts himself off and turns me with his hands. Spreads them over my shoulders and my back, mimicking me but moving faster, panting, sucking my skin into his mouth, biting, tugging, digging his fingers into me, and the thing next to my head disappears and oh his hands are no longer on me and I am alone, I am--

"Dean!" I shriek in a voice is not mine.

He touches my back. "I'm here, baby, I'm here, hold on---" he says, and I can hear him smiling as he strokes my spine, then feel his finger, cold and smooth, slide into me, just a little. And it is--terrible. And wonderful. And oh so not enough not enough I push back and he gasps, falls further into me, feels me grab him from the inside. He makes a noise, low in his throat, that makes me shove my cock against the sheets and he pulls away and there is more cold and more fingers and I--I cannot not see, anymore, my eyes are white and frayed and my mouth stops working but oh, I can hear him as he cracks me open.

"Oh, fuck," he growls. "Fuck, Cas, I'm gonna fuck you so hard, baby. That's what you want, huh? You want me to fuck you? You're gonna take all of my cock, aren't you? Yeah, oh, Cas, you're so--"

And I thrash, incoherent, shove back against his hand. Reach for him.

"Yes!" he says through his teeth, his voice dark and sure and hot. "That's what you want, isn't it? You just want my cock, don't you? You just want me to fuck you, shove my cock all the way in and pound you until you come, yes, baby, yes--"

Everything is white, a hot light, and I cannot not speak, even when he pulls away, even as I am empty after being filled, and then I feel him there, again. Not his fingers. Pushing.

"Oh, Cas--" he cries as he drives into me. "God, you're so tight, so--oh, yeah, baby, take it, yeah, take my cock--" Over and over again he says this, groaning, he is pushing and pushing and then I am full and he is. He is.

Moving. Fucking me. Pushing his body so deep into me, then pulling away and coming back again.

My mouth remembers how it works and I scream for him, demand more of him with my voice my body and he gives, all of his beautiful body moving at once, taking me for himself, giving himself to me.

"Yes, baby, yes," he chants over me around me inside me. "Yes, that's right, yes, oh so good, baby, so good--"

His voice started to curve, to swing high above us, and he pushes his hand around my hip, grabs my cock and pumps me in time with his hips.

Leans over me, his chest hot on my back.

"Yeah," he says again, and now his voice is quiet but I can hear him even over the roar of my heart my breath. "Yeah, Castiel," he purrs and I love to hear him say my name, like that, and he knows this oh he knows and he says it again, long and soft and sweet. "Castiel. Castiel. Yes. Fuck yes, baby, oh Cas," he sings into my ear, even as he is fucking me hard so hard and my cock is trapped in his hand and he is all that I want, ever, heaven hell earth be damned, just want him in me like this his body in and over mine and I do not wish for it to end but something in me snaps and I come for him, all over his hand, his name tangled in my mouth, my body buckling under his.

"Dean," I manage and it is a word that means everything.

I grab him from the inside and he shivers. Whispers my name against my neck, again, and he is done, broken, fulfilled all at once.

I fall, I feel him pull away, move out of bed. But he comes back to me. Kisses my neck. Wraps himself around me.

Love this.

Love him.

Sleep.

I wake up and he is not beside me. Roll over and hear the shower. Hear him singing, hear the water splashing, hear the cars rolling by outside.

I sit up and I am smiling. I am happy and I feel--I feel--almost drunk. It is pleasant.

In the shower, he shifts into some sort of drum solo, banging his hands on the tile.

Something starts to ring.

I blink, look around. Determine it is not the large telephonic device on the nightstand. I get up, stumbling, and the noise is coming from the pocket of his jeans. Ah.

I pull it out, the duct tape holding it together sticking to my hand, and I smile and push its button without thinking and hold it to my ear.

"Dean?" someone says, and oh, it is Sam, but before I can speak he says "Hey, baby, is that you? What's with the heavy breathing?"

And I can hear Dean's voice roll up into a high note and I drop the phone and pull on my pants my coat and I go outside where it is grey, the light that comes just before dawn, and I start walking, moving away down the road, in the dirt, in the ditch, in the grass and I do not think, I am not thinking, I am simply doing. I am acting first and thinking never and I am going, leaving, moving away. Gone.

**  
So. You see. I made a lot of mistakes.

When you are among them, never let the watcher sleep. There is a reason that we are separated, that they move down there and we observe from here. Remember this.

In this, as in all things, our Father was wise. Trust Him. Not yourself. And not them.


End file.
